


When The Wolf Is At Your Door

by Robb Stark (RyloKen)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And An Animal, And She Likes To Rag On People, Attempted Blackmail, But Dire Times Call For Direwolves, But Only When Provoked, But they don't know that, Cousin Incest, Direwolves As Weapons of War, F/M, Forgive Me, Half-Sibling Incest, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Sorry, Jon Snow Has a Twin Sister, Or Me Pretending I Know Things, POV Sybell Spicer, Political Intrigue, Robb Solving His Problems With Murder, Robb Stark is King in the North, Spicy Food Isn't Good For Wolves, Sybell Is An Opinionated Bitch, War of the Five Kings, i don't know what this is, written for a prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23182414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyloKen/pseuds/Robb%20Stark
Summary: She had what she needed, she knew, yet she stayed there in the shadows, watching like a ghost as the wolf king rutted like some pleasure slave trained in nothing else.She waited only long enough to see his movements stutter, his own voice rising to join his lovers in a growl that matched the one she’d had aimed at her more than once by that beast that haunted his every step.His back curved beautifully in the firelight, his hips pressed tight between the thighs of a pretty girl he shouldn’t even be looking at in such a way, let alone rutting with.She turned away, then, a smirk on her lips and a war he couldn’t win burning brightly in her eyes.He had not held back, had not pulled out.And she was going to hang him for it.
Relationships: Robb Stark/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 51
Kudos: 111





	When The Wolf Is At Your Door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yellowrabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowrabbit/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [yellowrabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowrabbit/pseuds/yellowrabbit) in the [Snow_Prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Snow_Prompts) collection. 



༺✬༻❀༺♡༻☽❆☾༺♡༻❀༺✬༻

 _The danger is I'm dangerous,_ _  
And I might just tear you apart._

[Kill of the Night - Gin Wigmore](https://youtu.be/pGju9VaQuyg)

༺✬༻❀༺♡༻☽❆☾༺♡༻❀༺✬༻

Nothing was going according to plan.

The war raged on and nothing she did seemed to have any outcome.

_The Young Wolf._

_The King in the North._

She scoffed and glowered into the flames that crackled lazily in the hearth.

Parchment rested curled beside her goblet of Arbor Gold, half drunk and as red as the blood she longed to spill from that idiotic boy.

The words, while neat and scripted beautifully despite the masculine cut of every letter, were hardly inspiring or reassuring.

She understood what wasn’t said, what wasn’t promised.

The risk was her own to take, though the rewards would be high.

Her fingers drummed on the wooden rest of her chair, a quiet lull to match her winding thoughts.

She had tried, already, on several occasions, to place her insipid daughter in the path of that dullard of a northern mutt, yet despite the betrothal being made to a lord of even lesser standing than herself, a lord known for his ugly children, he remained unmoved.

Gritting her teeth, she snatched up her goblet and drained it dry.

Apparently, her daughter couldn’t even compete with a damned _Frey Girl_.

_Pathetic._

She had thought to poison him, a potion to twist his mind and blind him to the apparent short comings her daughter had.

Being injured in the attack on her home should have made it easy, but no, there was no chance of that, not when her stupid child was caught trying to slip into his chambers and was promptly chased from the room by a snarling beast with mismatched eyes.

Oh but she wanted to gut that animal and make a coat from its silver fur.

_See the great Lord Lannister sneer down his nose at her then when she had done what he could not!_

Scowling, she hurled her goblet across the room and shoved from her chair to pace.

What was it about that stupid boy-king that made him so much better than all the rest?

His men revered him, bled and died for him with smiles on their stupid, brutish faces.

It wasn’t his place in the game, she was sure the damned fool didn’t even know he was a piece on the board!

He was terrible at politics and yet they seemed not to care a fig.

She ran a hand through her hair and chewed on her lip, a very unbecoming tick for a lady of her standing.

He was handsome, she supposed, but that was not something his men were likely to care about unless they were all as disturbed as that degenerate Knight of Flowers.

She scoffed, and then laughed under her breath and continued pacing.

No, his looks meant nothing, but perhaps it was charm?

But how far could charm possibly get him?

True, he hadn’t lost a battle yet, but wars weren’t won on the field, that she knew for certain.

Her fingers cracked lightly as she twisted them together, her mind tripping over itself to find any reason whatsoever as to why twenty thousand men had decided to toss their lives into the southern dirt for a green boy.

For a moment she thought perhaps it wasn’t even for him.

People the kingdoms over knew of the North’s love for Eddard Stark, and when the queen, as laughably dense as the vicious whore was, allowed her abomination of a son to strike the wolfs head from his body, it was no surprise to anyone what a mistake it was.

Dead hostages are worthless ones.

It fit, that they would rise up to wage war for him, in his name, but why then name his trout of a son king?

She sighed and rubbed her hands over her face, her fingers pressing and working over her tired eyes.

None of that mattered, none of it could help her.

Deciding that she’d spent more than enough time pacing a moat into her parlour floor, she lifted a fur about her shoulders to fight the draft of the halls and slipped from her rooms.

Hers was not an exceptionally large keep, and what was there of it wasn’t all that impressive either, but it was hers and it was home and it was currently under occupation by the enemy.

 _Seven_ , a hostage in her own damned home.

She tightened her fur around herself and glowered as she moved through the shadows.

A storm raged beyond the stone walls, left the entire keep stinking of damp and with a chill that seeped into the bone and left her aching in places she surely was still too young to be aching in.

Thunder rumbled close by, threatened to shake her keep to pieces as lightning ripped the skies to shreds and turned the rains to silver strands.

The downpour grew worse and her mood dropped to join it.

Beyond the storm, the keep was quiet, and for just a moment she allowed herself to pretend that she was not playing reluctant host to an army of savages.

The reality of her position made her shiver and draw her furs even tighter around her body.

She continued on in her stroll, allowed the storm to cleanse her mind of all the thoughts that did her little to no good.

She had to plan anew, with a mind fresh and free of the bitterness that came with failing.

She could blame her useless husband and her even more useless chit of a daughter all she wanted, but pawns only moved well when the one moving them knew what the hells they were doing.

And she did, she knew.

She _did._

It wasn’t in her blood to settle, to quit, to lay down and die.

She certainly wasn’t going to bare her throat to that mangy crowned cur that thought himself a Winter King.

She just had to find a weakness, a chink in his armour.

He knew war, true enough, but she knew southern politics, something his absent cunt of a fish mother had never bothered to educate him on.

No, that was a woman too busy driving herself to madness over the existence of a wolf pup not from her own loins than one truly desperate to make her kin aware of the game.

She snorted and rounded a corner, a smirk on her lips.

Tully’s were always reaching for more than they deserved, no better than Tyrell’s but without the cunning or the whit or the charm.

Truly fish out of water.

It would make things a little easier, at least.

She sighed, then, and paused in the darkened overhang of a spiralling staircase leading up to one of the few towers still standing in her home.

The stones were cold when she rested against them, her fingers shaking slightly as she lifted them to rub circles at her temples.

Could she kill a king through his mother?

Was that the weakness?

A boy still clinging to his mother’s skirts surely wasn’t what those warrior men wanted in a king.

She pursed her lips for a second before letting the thought go and turning to make for her rooms.

She needed sleep, and wandering the halls in the dead of night was not going to help her plot.

And yet.

And yet…

She paused as she drifted by one of the darkened halls left mostly unoccupied due to the damages wrought too many moons ago for her to remember.

They’d never bothered to fix it, having had no use for the additional wing.

It wasn’t as though they ever entertained anyone of remarkable note.

She listened, head tilted towards the hall to better hear the echoes of storm and something else.

Had that boy called a secret council?

Frowning, she stepped further into the shadows and followed the drip of rainwater that sluiced in through the cracks in the stone walls and the muffled hum of low voices.

The damp was worse here, and several times she was forced to lift her gowns and take to her toes to dance around the puddles of murky water that had formed in the uneven cobbles.

Dreadful and bothersome as it was, embarrassing as it was that these were the conditions she was forced to live in, she almost turned around.

It was a laugh that gave her pause, her fingers curled around a handful of skirts as she eyed a larger puddle than all the others and made to skip right over it.

What king laughed in his councils?

Was war a joke to him?

She scoffed and cleared the water before continuing on in silence.

A door was jarred open at the end, a slice of flickering light lit up the wall to show this was the room she sought.

Another laugh, deeper, huskier, and her brow rose.

When she stepped up to the door and peered through the gap…

_Well._

A smile pulled at her usually pinched lips.

Her mind raced.

Suddenly, without any effort on her part, she had all the answers she needed.

It all made sense.

He was there, that stupid wolf-boy, but it was no council he had called.

No northern lords glowered over their horns of ale, shouting insults at each other and besmirching ancestors left and right in a game of one-upmanship that truthfully had no place amongst those claiming to be grown.

No trout lady sat prim, proper and glaring with trident streams ablaze in her gaze, the stick in her arse wedged so firmly in place that she was left more than simple and quick to snap by the pressure it applied to her tiny fish brain.

_No._

No, this was much better.

Her grin grew.

He was in there, alone but for one other, and they were both making her job so very, _very_ easy.

He was vigorous, she would give him that.

Sweat licked up his bared spine as he moved, the flicker of flames from the fire dancing across his muscled shoulders as he pushed up onto his hands and rolled his hips.

She had thought him pale when first she’d seen him but now, now he seemed almost tanned, skin kissed by the sun he killed southern men beneath when compared to the beauty laid beneath him.

Her skin was porcelain, unblemished but for the kisses he’d gifted her with.

He moved easily between her spread thighs, her knees drawn high to cradle his ribs while her elegant fingers left marks where she gripped his waist, his hips, his arse.

A brow rose as she watched, a hand lifted to cover any noise of triumph she might loose.

It was a dance as old as time itself, and she took it all in from the shadows, watched as he dipped his head to mouth at her upturned jaw, his thrusts almost lazy but deep and strong.

He savoured her, she realised, and almost laughed.

This wasn’t something they had randomly stumbled into, a spur of the moment fumble between battles he might not return from.

This wasn't lust.

This was much, much worse.

This was _love_.

Victory burned as wildfire in her belly as she watched them move, as she listened to the sweet songs the wolf king drew from the girl he’d just lost the war with.

The sound was greater than anything she’d ever heard in her life.

There was something animal in how they coupled, a closeness that spoke of some connection only they shared.

He nuzzled her as if a wolf himself, nipped and licked at her skin and drew breathy sighs from her parted lips with every deep rut of his hips.

It was more than fucking, she could see that, more than simple touch or the thrill of being base.

He ghosted kisses down her throat with great affection and she reacted as if every whisper of touch was the greatest pleasure.

His auburn curls glowed in the firelight, wet as they were with sweat and hanging messily around his face as he dipped to flick his tongue into the well of her collarbones.

The flames in his hair contrasted well with the riot of darkness spilled across the pillow, the girls hair midnight harnessed and a tangled mess as if he’d run his fingers through it several times and lost himself within the spirals.

He shifted, his movements practiced, and slipped a hand between them, and she needn’t see where his hand was exactly to know what tricks his fingers played upon the girls flesh, not when she keened and arched beneath him, her thighs falling wide and her nails drawing blood to the surface of his back.

She had what she needed, she knew, yet she stayed there in the shadows, watching like a ghost as the wolf king rutted like some pleasure slave trained in nothing else.

The girl gasped, her lush mouth falling slack as she mewled and keened like a bitch in heat.

Her eyes opened and for just a second, just a moment, the flames in the hearth lit the storm in the grey.

It was gone with the next thrust of his hips, with the nuzzle of his nose against her jaw.

This wasn’t for his gain, she thought, not a willing woman to sate a tense mans thirst.

This girl mattered.

This girl was _more_.

This girl would be his undoing.

She waited only long enough to see his movements stutter, his own voice rising to join his lovers in a growl that matched the one she’d had aimed at her more than once by that beast that haunted his every step.

His back curved beautifully in the firelight, his hips pressed tight between the thighs of a pretty girl he shouldn’t even be looking at in such a way, let alone rutting with.

She turned away, then, a smirk on her lips and a war he couldn’t win burning brightly in her eyes.

He had not held back, had not pulled out.

And she was going to hang him for it.

༺✬༻❀༺♡༻☽❆☾༺♡༻❀༺✬༻

It was noon, though no one would know for the squall that continued to rage days after it had started.

Ordinarily she would hate it, would let it sour her mood and would take her anger out on those too stupid to stay out of her way.

As it were, she could hardly keep the smile from her face.

It was time.

She moved through the halls with all the purpose of a woman who was going to destroy a king.

History would remember her as the woman who singlehandedly won the war, who did what not even the great Tywin Lannister could do.

And she wouldn’t even have to spill any blood.

A laugh almost broke from the depths of her chest, and she had to admit that she’d never felt so young in all her life.

Victory tasted so sweet.

She stopped in front of the two guards standing sentinel on either side of the large door leading to one of her greatest rooms.

This solar had the greatest lighting, faced the sun and curved with its march across the skies and only lost its light when the sun dipped beyond the horizon.

Not that it would do any good when a storm had swallowed up the sky.

Its walls were draped in gorgeous tapestries depicting seascapes and rolling hills, beautiful sunsets over the sea and lush green forests.

The candelabras were spun silver, the large desk a waxed dark wood that gleamed and stood sturdy in the middle of the room before a great stone hearth framed by carved creatures straight out of myth.

She smiled to think of it, the room that would spell the end of the rebel king.

History wouldn’t remember it, but she would, her family would.

 _She’d make sure of it_.

The guard announced her with a knock and a call of her name in that lazy northern drawl the vast majority of them had.

Not even that uneducated sound could dampen her spirits.

The door opened and she walked in with her spine straight and her hands clasped at her front.

Dignified, refined, she would put this dog down like the highborn lady she was and no one would laugh at her family again.

The boy-king was staring at a parchment in his hand, his brow furrowed and his eyes keen on the words she knew nought of.

The hearth blazed behind him, lighting his hair aflame and casting shadows across his handsome face.

His wolf was there, grumbling lowly as it groomed the bitch, a direwolf no less impressive despite her dozing beneath each attentive swipe of tongue across her fur.

Her lips quirked and she struggled not to ask if the pair were as mated as their masters.

_No need to be uncouth._

The girl in question sat at one end of the large table, a soft smile on her full lips as she absently mended the hole that had been cut in his shirt when he’d been pierced by that arrow.

It was all so very domestic, she thought, and barely contained her snort.

“Lady Spicer.”

She drew her shoulders up and back and then dipped her head as if this boy, this pretender, was worthy of the supplication.

“Your Grace, please forgive the intrusion, but I had hoped I might have words with you.”

The Stark, for all his Tully colouring, lifted his head and turned those bright blues on her.

There was an ice there, that she doubted was in the woman who’d birthed him, despite how she likely tried.

Looking into those winter eyes of his, she could almost see the calculations, the threads of his thoughts, and the secrets swimming just behind it all.

She smiled.

“It will not take long, but I understand if you are busy and am more than willing to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

His gaze held on her for several moments, thoughtful, cold, before it flicked to the other woman in the room.

They shared a look, and though it only lasted but a handful of seconds, she saw an entire conversation pass silently between them.

She rose, that lovely girl, truly a northern beauty, and set the shirt aside in order to drop a _very_ deep curtsy.

When she rose, it was with the pale wolf and both turned to leave the room.

His eyes tracked her every step, and she saw the heat there, barely contained behind the storm of winter amongst all the blue.

She stepped aside, met eyes with the retreating girl, and smirked.

She wondered if the girl knew, as her grey eyes filled with confusion and suspicion, what was happening.

She wondered if she had any idea what her cunt had cost her king.

The door closed behind her, closing them both in, and silence filled the room.

They stared at each other, a battle of wills, before she let the shroud down and stepped into the path of a predator.

He would know how it felt to be prey when she was through with him.

She stepped up to the desk, and watched with satisfaction as the cold bled through with wariness.

_Good._

“Your sister, I presume.”

If she caught him off guard, he was well versed enough in duelling not to let it show.

“Aye, one of them at least.”

“I find it curious that you brought her here.”

His brow furrowed, his back straightening as he faced her head on as the threads in his mind begun to tighten and knot within the blue.

“I don’t, and it’s of no concern of yours why I did.”

 _Touchy_ , she thought, and smirked.

She disengaged, dropped her gaze to the table and turned to trail her fingers across the wood as silence met his remark and slowly began to stifle the solar.

She felt his eyes on her, tracking her each and every movement, and felt powerful.

This was control, and she revelled in the building of her trap.

Smiling softly, she looked back at him and lifted a brow.

“I imagine a great many men have thought to seek her hand, those at least who would look beyond what she is, of course.”

It was delightful, watching the flames stoke high in his gaze, the thrum of the vein in his throat, the tension forming in his broad shoulders.

“Pray tell, my lady, what you think she is.”

The laugh she graced him with was light and airy and full of poison.

“Think? Seven, no. That girl is a bastard and that’s the truth for all to see.”

“Careful, Lady Spicer. My sister is of no concern of yours and I’ll thank you not to mention her again.”

She shuffled her shoulders, for the move was far too elegant to be simply called a shrug, and pursed her lips.

“As you like, Your Grace, but it will be difficult to address my concerns if I am unable to speak of her.”

The tension tightened, drew his shoulders higher.

She grinned behind the mask of a docile lady, and opened the cage to wait.

“Your concerns? As far as I’m aware, you’ve had no dealings with her. What concerns could you have?”

“Why, those of a sensitive nature, I’m afraid. My concerns are for her, well, how to put this politely…nightly proclivities, perhaps?”

His eye twitched, and she almost cackled.

“Get to the point, _my lady_ , and spare me whatever game you’re attempting to play.”

“Oh, but the game is so important, _Your Grace_ , and you’ve not been playing it well, if you were aware you played it all.”

His brow furrowed deeply, his fist clenching at his side.

She grinned, then waved it away and turned her back on him.

The slight was not lost on him, nor was it lost on the wolf still sitting by the fire.

The great beast pushed up onto its paws, a low growl starting in its chest as its eyes shone in the firelight.

She might have been afraid, if she were not winning, but as it were, she was.

Smirk still in place, she moved to the open window and looked out to watch the rain.

It had not eased a bit, but she found she rather liked it.

She turned back to him slightly, just enough to watch him from the corner of her eye as he stood stiff as a post dug deep into the ground.

“She’s very beautiful, your sister.”

“Aye…she is.”

The hesitance in his tone was delicious, as if he knew he was stepping into a trap but not how to avoid it.

She couldn’t help it, the need that rose up to play with him just a little.

Like a dog with a frightened rabbit.

_A lion with everyone else._

Was this how Tywin felt?

No, no, this was more the game his whore of a daughter played.

A shame, but she’d play it for the satisfaction of seeing this pretender crumble.

“I imagine you’re very close with her.”

He made to speak, his full lips parting before he paused and thought better of it.

His silence was as loud as any words he could have spoken.

“I wonder,” she started, and smiled at the rain. “Just how close.”

The first crack appeared, and she turned to watch it form.

He tried so very hard to hide it, the shake in his hand, the draining of blood from his bearded cheeks.

The wolf stepped closer, growled deeper, and she grinned in the face of the boy-kings struggle to settle on one emotion.

It was almost pitiful how easy it was to break him, but then, he never stood a chance.

She stepped away from the windowsill and circled around the room, keeping as much space between her and the beast as possible.

She didn’t even have to watch him, so loud was his panic.

She did laugh then, a high tinkling thing that sounded like victory.

“Do you know what happens to internal doors when exposed to extremes in weather? I don’t pretend to be an expert in architecture but the rain, well, you live with it long enough and you begin to grow used to doors opening all on their own. In stone corridors, no less, sounds just seem to travel. It can be disorientating, frustrating, frightening even, if it happens at night. One moment there’s silence and then the next, a simple breeze can turn into something quite different. A scream, perhaps, a shriek even. If the conditions are right, it might even sound like _a moan_.”

He flinched as if she had stuck him, and she turned to face him fully.

He tried to act the unaffected, kept his shoulders back, his chin raised, and yet, he couldn’t hold her gaze.

When he spoke, his voice broke and waivered until he cleared it and dropped his eyes to his letters as if not interested at all in what she had to say.

It was adorable.

“I am afraid, my lady, that I share no interest in such matters. If you’ve no point to make, kindly take your leave as I have matters of import to see to and can’t spare the time to verbally joust about doors.”

She laughed, and shook her head.

“Very well, if doors are a topic of no interest to you, how then would you feel about incest?”

He froze up like a pond in winter.

And she slammed shut the cage.

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Oh, but you do, and unless you want all those northern lords of yours to hear about how their own king spends his nights, you’ll listen to what I have to say.”

Their eyes met, and she grinned through the bars of the cage she’d trapped him in.

He had lost, been out played, and now he knew it.

Without waiting for a retort, she stepped up to the table and placed a folded piece of parchment in front of him.

“My terms, if you wish for me to keep what I know to myself.”

He dropped his gaze to the parchment, his countenance darkening as he picked it up and read over the neatly, and elegantly, written words that would see his rebellion stomped out and her home emptied of all the northern filth that had invaded it.

He read the contract what seemed like several times before he lifted his glare and aimed it at her.

“You ask a lot for someone in no position to ask for anything.”

His eyes twitched when she laughed in his face, and the parchment crinkled in his fist.

“I think we both know that’s not true.”

“You ask me to kneel, to give up the crown my people bestowed upon me, to swear fealty to a bastard!”

“I had thought, since you had such an affinity for one bastard, that it wouldn’t be such an issue to get on your knees for another one.”

Colour flooded his cheeks, swept up behind the beard, and she couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or rage until it turned the blue of his eyes into a squall and the grinding of his teeth filled the room.

She waved the comment away with a smile and gestured to her written terms.

“Meet my demands and you get to go home. What’s not to like? The south doesn’t suit you; not our weather or our politics, which you must admit you simply are not prepared for. You may be a wolf, but we’re all snakes down here and even wolves cannot survive long the bite of a viper.”

She stepped around the table, conscious to keep him between her and his beast, and laid a hand on his trembling arm.

“Go home, it’s where you belong.”

“And abandon my sisters'? After everything we’ve fought for?”

His voice was barely a whisper, filled with fear and loss and an understanding that the ground he walked on had crumbled away to nothing.

She grinned behind the shroud of empathy she’d pulled on to manoeuvre him where she wanted.

“Your sisters' are all but lost to you, if you truly ever wish to see them again, war is not the way. Give the caged lion back, go home, show yourself to be loyal to the true throne and they’ll be given back to you.”

He remained silent for several minutes, likely weighing his options.

She left him to it, turned away to take her place back on the other side of the table.

It was the wolf she worried for, the beast tracking her with glowing eyes that spoke of a readiness to strike, a hunger to bite down on whatever part of her it could.

The king wasn’t nearly as worrisome.

He lowered his hand, the terms with it, and levelled a glare at her.

“I sign this, and everything I’ve done, everything I’ve lost in this war, will be for nothing. And for what? Because you think you know something?”

Folding her hands at her front, she met his gaze and sneered.

“Tell me, Boy King, how often do you fuck your sister? Was it just the one time, a night stolen in a castle you’ll eventually leave and never see again, or have you mounted her often enough that you can’t live without it? Don’t agree to my terms, lets see what happens. Perhaps your men won’t care where you choose to stick your cock but they might care to know that their northern heir, their future prince, will likely come from the belly of the bastard their precious dead Ned squirted into some whore two rebellions ago.”

Anger flashed through his eyes, just as the flush of it seeped away and left him looking quite the ghost.

She smiled, then, and it was all teeth and threat.

“Think on what I’ve said, and I do mean think. Agree, and you can go back to that frozen wasteland you call a home to fuck your sister until she fills your halls with bastards without any fear of anyone finding out from me. Or don’t, and know that everyone will learn that the honourable Robb Stark, King in the North, is no better than the lion whore who props her spawn up as stags, or the Kingslayer who bred them on her.”

Her skirts whirled as she turned, her steps sure and victorious as she made for the door and left the startled boy behind her.

The wolf was snarling now, but there was a whine to the sound, and it brought a smirk to her lips.

Pausing before she touched the door to pull it open, she turned her head to look over her shoulder at him and sniffed.

“Those are your choices, _my lord_ , one or the other. Choose wisely, I would so hate to see you and your sister become just like the lion twins.”

And with that, and her head held high, she left her glorious room, and knew herself to have won.

༺✬༻❀༺♡༻☽❆☾༺♡༻❀༺✬༻

She left him to deliberate over her demands.

They were simple really, and easily met.

Fealty to the southern throne, an end to his rebellion, setting aside his crown and paying reparations to her family for the damages done to her home.

She had thought, once, to demand his hand for her daughter, to skip over Tywin’s wish to keep all the kingdoms united under one crown and strike out in the North with her dull Jeyne sat beside a king.

The thought had been tempting, tempting enough at least for her to write it down before sense settled in over greed and she tossed the parchment into the flames.

She would be mother to a queen, for a time, true, but sooner or later the shadow Tywin Lannister cast would smother her and hers in darkness and a crown would do little to protect her from becoming another Ellyn Reyne.

So instead she kept to his wishes, pretended she gave two shits about the realm and weaved her own needs and wants into the mix.

She wouldn’t get much, but the bragging rights would be enough, and Lord Lannister would owe her a debt.

_And Lannister’s always paid their debts._

She hummed at the thought, of what she would get for doing what that Old Lion could not.

Oh, she’d hold her tongue and act the dutiful bannerman, and none but him would see right through it.

They’d have an accord though, and she’d be rich.

Rich and with a higher seat at the table.

_Perhaps Castamere?_

Laughing lightly to herself, she swirled her Arbor Gold and sipped the tart red as her mind raced.

The storm still hadn’t passed, but she was too pleased with herself to let it bother her.

She had _won_.

She had singlehandedly beaten the wolf, the same one that had had the great Tywin Lannister pissing into his boots.

With a shake of her head, she rose and set aside the goblet.

Her rooms were pleasantly warm, the hearth aglow with a roaring fire, and so she feared no chill as she slipped from her gown and into her bed in naught but her shift.

She would sleep well, she knew, and would dream of a good match for each of her idiot daughters.

Mayhaps a Lannister?

Didn’t Kevin have a couple of sons?

Or had the Wolf King killed all of them?

She certainly wouldn't lower herself to consider that wretched little beast that constantly drowned himself in whores and wine, or the lion that had pricked his own sister since the time he knew what his cock was for.

_No._

No matter how her silly girls' gushed and fawned over how legendary his golden looks allegedly were, she would never stoop so low as to settle for a sister fucker.

Or a ghastly little monster.

She deserved better than _that_ for a legacy.

She snorted and rolled over, pressed her face into the soft fabric of her feather pillow.

Thoughts better left for the morning.

Her eyes closed, and she dreamed, but it was not of lions and gold but blood and a wolf pack gnawing on the bones of her dead body.

She woke to darkness, her heart in her throat, and a chill in the air.

The fire was naught but embers, the wood burned out and mostly ash, and with the window slightly opened, her room was no longer pleasant to be in, even under her blankets and furs.

She curled in on herself, thought to call for one of her useless maids to see to the fire, but something kept her quiet, something kept her still.

The cold of the room was oppressive, and when she listened passed the sound of the rain, she swore she heard something close to panting.

_Dread._

It sunk into her gut like poisoned water, burned through her like wildfire.

She shifted, pushed up to stare into the darkness of her room, and locked eyes with the beast snarling at the end of her bed.

Her lungs seized.

Her heart skipped and then tripped over itself to beat properly.

Her vision may have blurred but she could not be sure if it were tears or a dizziness in her mind left over from the wine she’d drunk before bed.

She begun to shake, and then she froze.

The wolf was not the threat.

He sat in the corner, lounged across her chair as if it were a throne and he were holding court.

It looked easy for him, comfortable.

It looked natural.

Their eyes met, and the cold was there, the winter, and the promise that it had come for her was shining bright in the madness of the blue sea staring back at her.

When he spoke, his voice was low, dark, and it sent a shiver down her spine.

“When I received the raven that spoke of my fathers imprisonment, and that of my sisters', I was afraid. I called the banners and declared war on the south, and all the while fear waged its own war on me. I was a boy then, and in many ways I still am. I’ve killed men, so many I’ve lost count, and I’ve seen battle, enough to know I’ll never find ease in the slaughter, that the fear doesn’t leave even when the adrenaline runs free.

“I left my home afraid. I waged war afraid. I mourned my fathers murder in fear that the same fate would befall my little sisters', girls' little more than children. My little brothers' were burned alive and strung up from the battlements of my own keep by a kraken I had called my brother and I felt fear, that nothing I have done has made a difference and that all I’ve accomplished is death for my family and my people.”

Silence fell over the room but she dared not fill it, dared not move, dared not even breathe when the very sound of her breaths seemed to draw the wolf closer, its teeth gleaming and sharp.

He leaned forward, that Wolf King, and continued to stare at her.

“I haven’t truly been free of fear for most of this war, and long before it, but I have my moments.”

His eyes flicked to the direwolf, and the beast snarled loudly and lifted a paw onto the end of her bed, followed by the second, before it paused and continued to stare her down.

She shivered, whimpered, and the tears that stained her cheeks without her permission dragged the mans attention as much as the wolfs.

“I am him, sometimes. I wake from dreams where I stalk prey and hunt lions and when I swallow, there’s the taste of blood in my mouth. I feel him, and I don’t know how else to explain it other than that we are the same, two pieces bound to one another. When I’m with him, seeing through his eyes, hunting, killing, I know nothing of the fear that cripples me when awake, when my choices will likely see the deaths of hundreds of my men.

“I thought to stop it, once, to push it aside and pretend it was nothing more than imagination, a falsity created in my mind to belittle the weakness I felt every day.”

His fingers spread where they were hanging between his splayed knees, and he dropped his eyes to stare at them for several moments.

The silence was unbearable, suffocating, but she didn’t know what she could do.

She cursed herself for not sleeping with a dagger, for not being more aware.

He picked at a callus on his palm absently, for a moment, before he smirked.

It was not the grin of a snake, not something she had ever seen on the face of a player in the great game.

It was all teeth, all danger.

_It was all wolf._

Her blood cooled.

“Did you know wolves mate for life?”

The question startled her enough that she took her eyes off the beast in front of her and gave the Stark boy a look.

It was a mistake.

The direwolf snarled louder, edged closer so quickly she jumped in fright and shoved herself up and back and against the high wood of her headboard.

Robb Stark didn’t even flinch, didn’t even move.

He just watched.

And then continued on with his damnable calm words.

“Grey Wind doesn’t like you very much, Lady Spicer, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the way you strut around this shitty pile of damp rocks you call a home. You see, I think you’ve offended him. Maybe thought something not so nice about his mate. He can tell, you see, when people slight her. Awfully possessive of his little mate, and protective.

“Just like me.”

A sob tore through her as the wolf hunched closer, eyes gleaming and full of hunger.

She felt its breath on her cheek as she whimpered, felt the weight of its closeness, of the danger it represented.

The snarl seemed to come just as much from its displayed maw as it did its broad chest, where the fur was light and thick and not unlike a mane.

Her blood would stain it red, she knew, and the thought made her cry all the more.

Robb Stark was silent as he stood, and she saw it now, the way they both held themselves, beast and boy, the way they both moved like predators with no equals.

They both filled the room, and she knew then that she had made a grave miscalculation.

This was not a boy or a man that could be manipulated, this was a monster from the cold that could only be sated with blood and death.

Her blood.

Her death.

Her sobs grew harder to hide.

“Tell me, Lady Spicer, when you found us mating, how long did you stay? How long did you hide in the shadows watching the wolves rut?”

She couldn’t answer, couldn’t even think clearly as the beast edged closer, close enough that its snout brushed her hair.

She keened like a newborn afraid of the dark, but this was much worse than that.

She shook, and didn’t try to change that until the man who was more wolf than not, snapped at her to speak.

“Until you finished!” She sobbed, her eyes clenching closed as she choked on her own heartbeat and spilled her tears freely. “I stayed until I knew you had spent inside of her.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she whimpered, and tried to curl into as small a ball as she could. “I needed more leverage than just you laying with her. Your lords might not have cared if they thought you were simply bedding her but if they knew you were going further, that it was more than just physical pleasure, they might not be so quick to brush it aside. They may love you in a way no one will ever love Joffrey, but even they can’t overlook what would happen if the heir to their kingdom was a bastard born of incest.”

She expected him to snap, to snarl as much as his wolf, but instead she was met with a laugh, a deep and husky thing that was all danger and no true humour.

He stepped closer, then, and filled the small view she had of the room around his beast.

His smirk was lethal.

“Who said anything about my heir being a bastard?”

Her breath hitched, and despite the fear she felt for the beast, her gaze snapped to the boy and stared in shock.

The smirk became a grin.

“Wolves mate for life, Lady Spicer, and so do I.”

He straightened, turned his back on her and returned to his place on her chair in the corner.

Elbows rested on his knees, he studied her over his knuckles, his fingers laced in front of his face.

She was growing faint, her heart leaping and her blood rushing too quickly for her to keep his passive pace.

“I’ve thought about your terms, my lady, and I’ve decided I don’t much like your demands or your threats. Grey Wind.”

She choked on her scream as the wolf lunged, teeth snapping, and wailed like a dying animal as it towered over her, breath hot on her face and paws digging into her thighs.

She waited for the first bite, for the first rip of her flesh, torn from her bones by fangs that shone in the dark, sharp and keen.

It didn’t come.

Her sobs were free now when she met the King in the North’s gaze, and she watched as he settled back, comfortable and at peace and with a soft smile on his face.

“I want you to know that it wouldn’t have mattered. What you saw, what you think, what you thought would happen. My men will follow me into the seven hells themselves if it leads their swords to the throats of lions. Their voices will rise in a battle cry of my name and they’ll care nothing for where my heir comes from. If anything, they’ll be pleased. More northern blood for the northern throne, and no more southern whore from a shit-stained house to warm my bed.

“And for those who aren’t happy with my mate, who don’t find themselves agreeing with my choice of queen, the woman I choose to bear my heirs, well, I figure they’ve got roughly seven months to get over it.”

It struck her like a mace, left her too dumb to cry for the moment as the realisation dawned, as it sunk in.

No.

_No._

“ _Yes_ ,” he snarled, as if reading her mind. “And it was bound to happen. After all, I’ve been fucking her for _months_. But it's more than that, as you well suspect I'd wager. She's a part of me, in me in a way I can't explain, just as I'm in her, am hers. She's everything, and _you_ thought to _threaten_ her.”

He stood, calm and loose-limbed, and seemed to fill the entire room.

Then he made for the door and she expected him to leave, to close the heavy wood behind him after calling his wolf to follow.

A threat she would not see as idle.

But her hope was dashed when the wood opened, the hinges creaking, and the other wolf entered.

A cry bubbled in her chest as she saw it, watched it, noted the distended swell of its belly that she hadn’t seen when the great silvery beast had lounged before the fire.

Robb grinned, a glint in his eyes that was all the way malicious and unforgiving.

“You should have walked away, I wouldn’t have cared about you otherwise. But instead, you let your greed and your fear of Tywin Lannister blind you. A mistake, as the lion wasn’t the beast you needed to fear, not when the wolf was already at your door. Sleep well, Lady Spicer, and enjoy your seven hells. You’ll be rotting in them soon enough.”

And then he walked away, the door closing firmly shut behind him.

She was left alone, cold and in the dark.

There was a long moment of silence, a heavy pause where all she could hear was the storm outside and her own laboured death rattles.

The dam broke when the wolves lunged, and no one heard her screams.

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**   
>  _Sybell Spicer discovers the King in the North's illicit relationship with his sister and tries to blackmail him into making her daughter a queen. Robb teaches her not to mess with wolves and their pack._
> 
> **Prompt by:**   
>  _yellowrabbit_
> 
> I hope this is okay and somewhere in the realm of what you were looking for! (✿´‿`)


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